


The Song of Cassandra Troy

by lalamydear



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6996883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalamydear/pseuds/lalamydear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cass has a gift and a curse.  She knows that things will happen before they do, and sometimes she'll get glimpses of the future or the past, but she doesn't tell anyone because they'll think she's crazy.  </p><p>She's okay with it at first, resigned at best, but then, she has the vision that ends all visions, a vision that predicts the death of her entire family.</p><p>Quickly, she realizes that this isn't the first time that this has happened, but this time is different.  This time, she won't fail.  She won't let herself fail.</p><p>Now, if only the gods would agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Song of Cassandra Troy

.prologue. 

smart 

If there was one attribute that I could claim, it was that I was smart. My mother called me bright, and teachers loved having me in class because everything came easy to me. It was almost as though I knew about things before I even learned them, teachers would comment, slack-jawed and reverent. The ideal student. 

Not only that, but people would often comment how helpful I was, always there one step ahead of a disaster, catching falling cups, narrowly missing flying balls. My mother noticed this, too, how I would always be there a minute before she called me, sometimes responded to questions that she hadn't even asked yet. 

But no matter how amazed they may have seemed, no matter how much I was praised, I could always see the uneasiness in their eyes, the anxiety of turning around and finding me there with the pencil that they needed. There was something unnerving about me, something strange and off-kilter, the parents of my one-time friends would whisper to each other. I wasn’t normal. I was eerie; my dark brown eyes seemed to look right through everyone and cut sure to the soul. 

_It’s bizarre_ , they would say in hushed tones, thinking I couldn’t hear, _creepy even_. 

So, I stopped. 

Because I’m smart. 

I could never explain it. I could never find the words to describe it. I just _knew_ things: I _knew_ that it was going to rain today even though the weather man said it wouldn’t; I _knew_ that there would be a freak accident on the highway hours before it happened; and I _knew_ that I would get accepted into Delos University long before I even entered high school. Sometimes I would see things happen, too, glimpses and flashes of objects and things that made sense sometimes and only made sense in retrospect other times.

But I never told anybody. I _couldn’t_ tell anybody. 

I did try once, tried to explain it to my mother when I was little, tried to tell her that I knew what would happen, what card she would pull out of a deck, what number the dice would roll, and the look she gave — concerned and frightful and full of disbelief — made my mouth seal shut. I never tried ever again. 

The worst part was the dreams. Sometimes I just knew or saw strange fragmented visions or both, and other times, oh, other times, I would have these dreams, vivid, gut-wrenching dreams. They kept me from sleeping some nights, made me thrash and scream. My twin, Henry, would run and tell our older brother, Hector, and they would rush into my room and hold my hand, rub my back and soothe my tears, but no matter what, I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, and still, they would stay there till morning came, comforting me, telling me jokes to make me laugh. 

Life went on like this, and I dealt with my two-faced gift and curse, never once worrying about making people believe me, never once caring that only I knew the truth. 

Until _it_ happened. 

Three weeks before I started at Delos, on the night of my eighteenth birthday, I had a dream. It was a dream about fire and screams and charred bodies. It was a dream about blood and fear, the entire world crashing down, bullets raining, crying, salty tears, heart throbbing, heat scorching. 

It was a dream about love and the folly of love, the sacrifice of love—and lust and beauty, death’s beauty, death’s beloved, death’s cold, eternal embrace. This time, I didn’t wake up screaming. 

This time, I woke up, silent, bathed in fresh tears and filled with a cold, unyielding terror. 

It was a dream about my middle brother, Paris, and how his love and desire for a beautiful woman would kill us all, would set fire to our lives, burn them all down one by one.

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins.


End file.
